Title: "Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane"
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;"
also spoilers for "Fool for Love"
Summary: Buffy begins the task of putting Spike's pieces back together, and finds it's an altogether Sisyphean one.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
Author's Note: Sorry it's taken so long to get the next chapter up -- computer
troubles, and all that jazz....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her, checking her watch and frowning. Three hours late -- she wondered what she was going to tell Dawn.
"Buffy? That you?" Dawn's voice called from the kitchen. Willow poked her head around the corner and smiled. "Yeah, it's her, Dawn." Willow stepped out to meet her and said in a low voice, "Did you do that -- that thing I talked to you about?"
Buffy nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. He's pretty cra--" She stopped, seeing Dawn step out, wearing oven mitts on her hands. "Uh, hey, Dawn. How's it going?"
Dawn put her hands on her hips and pretended to pout. "Buffyyyyy," she whined. She broke into a smile. "Hey. What's up? It's still daylight --" she gestured to the open front windows -- "can't have been doing much with the, you know, slayage."
"Oh! Um. I had to stay after, at the school," Buffy said, not meeting Dawn's eyes. Willow took that moment to quietly slip out of the room and head upstairs.
"Well, I hope they're paying you overtime," Dawn muttered. "I made some frozen pizza again, but I'm starting to get sick of it --"
Buffy took a deep breath. No more hiding things, she told herself firmly. "Wait. Dawn, I wasn't doing overtime. I was with Spike."
Dawn threw her oven-mittened hands into the air, a look of disgust crossing her face. "*What?* After what he did? Buffy, have you lost your mind?"
Buffy sighed. "No, I don't think I have. But Spike has, that's for damn sure."
"And you care . . . why?"
"Dawnie, listen to me. I'm going to spell this out in terms you can understand." Dawn rolled her eyes and pulled off her oven mitts, exasperated. "Spike got his soul back."
Dawn's jaw dropped. "He -- what?"
"He got it back and now he's kinda crazy and I'm trying to help him. Remember a few weeks ago when you went all -- poseable? Remember how weird he was? He wasn't joking around. He's seriously screwed up," Buffy explained.
Dawn scratched her head. "But how did he get it in the first place? And why's he all weird? I mean, not to say he wasn't weird before." She scowled.
"He won't tell me exactly how he got it, but I think he had to do some trials for it. He had burns . . . scars. I don't think it was pretty." Buffy shook her head. "He's crazy because he's guilty. You know, being a vamp for a century or so, you're bound to do some evil things. And he was pretty evil."
"Yeah he was. Is." Dawn ground her teeth, still scowling. "I can't believe you're helping him. After what he did, Buffy. Or did you forget?"
She was stung. She strode to her sister, clenched and unclenched her fists in anger. "I'll never forget. And that's exactly what I told him. Look, I don't have to tell you these things. I thought that's what you said, that I needed to tell people what was going on not when *I* felt like it, but when it needed to be done." She turned her head. "Anyway, he's worst with the crazy and all when he remembers . . . about me." She shrugged. "Make of it what you will, Dawn. But I'm helping him. Not *hooking up* with him, not . . . boinking . . . him -- but I'm helping him."
Dawn looked abashed. She stared at the ground for a few minutes as Buffy went into the kitchen and checked on the pizza in the oven. Sighing, she followed Buffy into the kitchen. Buffy looked mildly at her, wondering what was coming.
"I -- um, I'm sorry, Buffy. I still don't think helping him's a good idea --" Dawn looked up into Buffy's face, and smiled, tears in her eyes. "But I'm glad you told me."
"No more secrets," Buffy said, squeezing Dawn's shoulder. "I think we all had enough of that last year. Now, are you ready for some delicious frozen pizza?" Dawn managed a weak smile, and Buffy hollered in the direction of the stairs. "Willow, pizza's ready!" As Willow came down the stairs, Buffy took her sister's hand, then squeezed. Dawn squeezed back.
In a whisper, so Willow couldn't hear, Dawn said playfully, "So. Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane. I like."
*****
It was looking like a good night for Spike. He sat at the kitchen table, animated, chatting with her lucidly as he nursed a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. His clothes -- black t-shirt, black jacket, black jeans -- were clean, and his eyes were clear. He hadn't once slipped into poetry or old memories, and was discussing calmly the latest demon to attack Sunnydale.
"So like I was saying, bloody thing's got to be hungry by now. Don't think it's eaten in centuries," he said, sipping his cocoa.
Buffy nodded, pleased at his progress. This was only his fourth night of coming over to the house before she went on patrol, and already he was starting to sound quite sane most of the time. Dawn was still uncomfortable with him coming, so Buffy had told her she could revoke his invitation every night after he left. That had cheered Dawn up slightly and now she walked through the kitchen during their meetings, a smug smile on her face. She was currently rummaging under the sink, looking for props for a Halloween costume.
"Buffy, do we have any weapons or anything? I mean, besides your cool slayer ones? I don't want to freak out the little neighborhood kids," Dawn said, closing the cupboard doors.
"Now, this party's going to be safe, is it?" Spike asked, turning around and fixing Dawn with a piercing stare. "No frat boys, no orgies. . . ." He waggled a finger at her.
Dawn laughed uneasily, looking to Buffy for help. She seemed to be saying, "I thought he was crazy?" She looked at Spike. "Uh, no, not that I know of." Spike nodded, seeming pleased with himself. Dawn quickly said, "Uh, I'll check upstairs -- maybe in the closet --" She turned and headed for the stairs.
Spike stared morosely into his cocoa. "Still doesn't trust me."
"No, not really," Buffy agreed cheerfully. "But she didn't threaten to set you on fire again, now did she?"
He perked up slightly. "No. That's something." He paused, looking thoughtful. "The voices are very quiet here. I feel like me again. Like they aren't in charge of me."
"That's good," she said encouragingly. "I told you that Hellmouth was screwing you up, but did you listen? Noooo."
He nodded, downed his hot chocolate. He held out his empty mug, a smile -- an easy, natural smile -- creasing his face. "Got any more?"
Buffy grinned. "Yeah. You know, Spike -- this is getting *easier.*" She took his mug and went to the cupboard, pulling out the cocoa mix.
"What is?" he asked curiously.
"Me. Talking to you. It's almost like -- old times, only, old times weren't really like this." She stopped, suddenly afraid she had said too much. "Um, how many scoops do you want?"
"As many as'll fit."
There was a sound of clattering footsteps coming down the stairs -- Dawn. Dawn peered into the kitchen, clutching something behind her back. "Um, Buffy?"
"What is it, Dawn?"
"I found this. Upstairs, in the closet." She stepped into the doorway and drew out her prize, holding it at arm's length in front of her and wrinkling her nose at the musty, crumpled object. "I figured you guys might want it."
It was Spike's duster.
Buffy stared at it. The last time he'd worn that duster he'd tried to -- She swallowed, closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them she saw Spike was staring at the duster, a look of intense concentration upon his face.
"Spike?" Buffy asked carefully. "It's your duster. Do you want it?"
He looked down at the table, giving a little shiver. "'S not mine." He was grimacing.
Buffy sighed and reached out, took the duster in one hand. "Thanks, Dawn." Dawn looked at Spike's face, then quickly exited the room. Buffy sat down, holding the duster. "Spike, it *is* yours. Remember? You've been wearing it for the past twenty years, for God's sake."
But he was shaking his head, refusing to look at it. Buffy bit her lip, then laid it down absently on the table. A bit of a leather sleeve touched Spike's hand.
The effect was astonishing. He let out a howl and leapt to his feet, shoving himself away from the table and knocking over his chair. He backed into the counter behind him, his face twisting, his chest heaving. "Get it away!" he moaned.
Buffy was shocked. "What's wrong?"
He was trembling, trying to organize his thoughts. "It -- blood. Soaked in blood. Won't come out." He hid his face from her. "Take it away. I killed her. . . . Snapped her neck. Her eyes -- And she -- like you -- I killed her." He slid down to a sitting position on the linoleum. "I don't want it anymore. I don't want it. Take it away." He was petulant now, child-like, his eyes filling with tears. "I killed her."
"Buffy?" Willow's concerned voice asked. Buffy looked up to see Willow in the doorway, looking worried. "I heard a shout, and -- oh." She saw Spike cowering against the wall and looked at Buffy. "Bad night, huh?"
Buffy nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show. "It was going so well, too. He sounded like the old Spike again. I mean, not the evil 'I'm gonna kill you' Spike, but the not-so-evil 'I guess I'll help you out' Spike." Willow nodded supportively.
"Well, um, it's kinda getting late --"
"Yeah, I know. Slaying and all that jazz." She sighed, looking at Spike. He was now rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed, his mouth moving. "Look, I'll take him back to the -- the basement." She frowned. "Damn, we really need to find him a place to stay." She sighed. "Tell Dawn I'm out patrolling. And tell her she can do her thing, you know, with the invitation. It makes her feel better."
"Okay." Willow was watching Spike, seemingly fascinated with him.
"Willow? You gonna help me out, or you gonna stare at the crazy vampire all night long?"
"Oh! Yeah!" Willow, looking embarrassed, turned to leave. Before she did, she quickly said, "Buffy. . . . I'm proud of you. This -- helping him -- I think it's something Tara would have done." She smiled wistfully, then bowed her head and left.
Buffy blinked back tears. She wasn't sure if Willow knew that Tara was the only one she had really confided in about Spike. But as she went to Spike, helped him to his feet, and put her arm around him, she thought maybe Willow knew what she was talking about.
*****
The night air on his face was fresh, clean. It snapped him back to himself. He realized he was walking along the
sidewalk, a small, impossibly strong arm around his waist, keeping him moving. He blinked, saw Buffy's golden hair glinting at his side in the pale moonlight.
Disgust filled him. He'd done it again, showed his stupidity, his weakness. He managed a short, angry laugh, and Buffy looked up at him, startled. "Spike?"
"Bloody hell. S'pose I fell all to pieces again, didn't I." It wasn't a question.
She pulled a little closer to him, though he couldn't be sure if it was on purpose, or if because it was cold. It was uncharacteristically chilly, quite unlike the usual balmy nights they were used to. Without thinking he put his arm around her shoulders, drew her nearer to him. She flinched a little, but didn't pull away.
"Yeah, you kinda did." Her voice was soft. "You were doing really well, though. Lucid . . . like your old self . . . you were doing good."
He snorted. "Like my old self. Wish I knew what that was." He looked around, saw they were a few blocks away from the school. The houses on either side of them were dark; he supposed it must be late.
Buffy didn't say anything, and he didn't press her. The voices were beginning their old clamor again, and he concentrated on keeping them at bay. "Stay away," he muttered. "Don't want to listen to you now, had enough of your yammering for one night. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up."
"Shh." She gently squeezed his side and he looked at her, surprised into silence. "You're stronger than they are."
"Oh. Right. Right; strong. Gonna make you shut up, I am. Now. Right now." He was walking more quickly, picking up the pace, gritting his teeth. Buffy was nearly trotting alongside him to keep up.
Buffy pulled back on his shirt, looking up at him with an annoyed expression. "Hey. Whoa, cowboy. If you haven't noticed, I have tiny little legs. Slow down."
He stopped, turned his head, looked at her. Her arm still encircled his waist; his was still around her shoulders. She was still shivering, looking pale and wan beneath the moonlight. He swallowed, concerned. "Are you cold?"
She shook her head, rolling her eyes a little. "No, Spike, I'm just shivering here for my own amusement. Yes, I'm cold. I didn't realize it was gonna be this chilly, that's all. I mean, this *is* California. . . ." She shivered again. "Cold front must've blown in or something."
Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face her. He raised his other arm, touched her shoulder. He smiled a little. "You can have my jacket if you like, pet."
She stared up at him; a hint of a smile played about her lips. The scent of her hair -- delicate, flowery -- wafted up to him. He breathed deeply of it -- and suddenly the most ferocious voice yet roared within his head.
He ripped his arms away from her and stumbled backwards, colliding with a street lamp and falling clumsily down. His head throbbed with pain and he cried out, shuddering with fear, squeezing his eyes closed.
Buffy ran to him, her eyes wide. "Spike! What is it --"
He flipped over onto his side, curling up. The creature in his mind snarled and spit, snapping its jaws. Its voice was harsh and cruel, and it filled him with terror. "God, get it out, get it out of my head!" he begged her, tears flooding his cheeks. He reached out in desperation, grabbed at her feet. "Make it stop -- please --"
The creature howled again, and he clapped his hands to the sides of his head, panting, quaking. He shook his head back and forth, frantically crying, "No, no, leave me alone, *no*!"
Her hands. She was touching him, trying to get him on his feet. "Spike, people are gonna hear --"
The beast was laughing. Its booming laugh was like hammers dancing in his head, smashing everything within to bits.
"Get it out!"
"C'mon --" She was tugging at him, trying to pry his hands from his ears.
"Can't move -- I can't -- don't you think I'm *trying* --"
"Spike, we're going whether you like it or not!" He was vaguely aware that she was hoisting him up, dragging him along. He clung to her, and wept, lost again.
*****
Buffy banged on the front door. "Dawn? Willow? Open up," she yelled. A light flickered on in one of the upstairs bedrooms and Buffy sighed, bracing the quiescent Spike against her. He had finally quieted a few blocks from the house, but he refused to stand alone -- she had tried letting go of him and he had tumbled to the ground. Now she looked at him, taking in the tousled hair, the half-closed eyes, the parted lips of the white face resting on her shoulder.
"Spike. Can you hear me?"
"Weak," he breathed. "Weak." His eyes fell shut and she groaned, kicking half-heartedly at the door as it swung open, revealing an annoyed-looking Dawn in pajamas.
"C'mon, Dawn, help me get him in. He's kinda -- out of it."
Dawn blanched. "Buffy, you've already had your little therapy session today. Can't he go sleep in his basement?" She rubbed her eyes.
"No. Come on, Spike, help me out here." She hauled him over the threshold and to the couch, where she pushed him onto it a little more harshly than she meant to. He lay there, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes.
"Buffy!" Dawn slammed the front door and turned around, her hair sticking out at odd angles. She looked pissed. "He's not *staying* here, is he?"
"Well, if you want to drag him back down to the Hellmouth, be my guest, Dawn," Buffy said sharply, leaving Spike's side and rummaging in the front closet for a jacket, still feeling chilled. She pulled out her leather jacket and shrugged into it, looking at Dawn. "But I have work to do, and I don't really want to carry him all the way down there. You can see he's --"
"Gone mad," Spike said helpfully. Sweat shone on his forehead. "They always t-told me I was foolish and they were r-right. My st-stuttering always -- Mother so disappointed, her b-boy so useless." Tears sparkled on his cheeks. "N-never a real m-m-man. I'm sorry," he whispered. "Don't be angry, please, I tried v-very hard." He let out a cry and hid his face in the blanket on the back of the couch.
Buffy looked at Dawn, who was standing at the end of the couch with wide eyes. "Can you imagine me trying to cart him back to that basement with him like *that*?"
"I -- wow, Buffy, you weren't kidding," Dawn said, sounding almost impressed.
Buffy rubbed her forehead. "Dawn, you are such a --" She refrained from finishing the sentence and instead yawned. "I haven't dusted anything tonight. I have to go back out, okay?"
"Where do we put him?" Dawn said, her awe wearing off. She now sounded sulky. "We're not just gonna leave him here with things -- open. He could just come up the stairs and --"
"Fine! We'll lock him in the basement, all right?" To herself she murmured, "No windows, he'll be fine." She looked up at Dawn and forced a smile to her face. "Well, open the door for me." As Dawn went to open the basement door Buffy reached down and again hefted Spike to his feet. He clutched at her, fear in his eyes.
"Don't let go," he whispered. "I'll be lost."
"We're going to take you downstairs, all right, Spike? You can get some sleep. You won't be lost." As she spoke she pulled him forward and he reluctantly followed her to where Dawn stood by the open basement door.
"Um, go on down, Spike," Dawn offered.
"Go on up to bed, Dawn. I'll take care of him," Buffy said wearily. Dawn slipped past her and Buffy began helping Spike down the steep steps. At last they reached the bottom and Buffy looked around, spotting a rickety cot in the corner. She helped him to it and laid him down.
"It's like a puzzle in my head," he said, his voice full of wonder as she picked up a blanket and spread it over him. "Little pieces -- jigsaw -- no sense." He tapped his forehead, winking at her and stretching his face into a grin. "No sense, luv. Just . . . little . . . pieces."
"Um, yeah, Spike." She stood over him, looking down at him. Her face was filled with pity. She reached out, as if to stroke his face, then jerked her hand back, suddenly afraid. He didn't notice; he had closed his eyes. She swallowed, confused by herself. She turned and jogged back up the stairs, shut off the light, and locked the door. She checked it three times before she was satisfied.
*****
Spoilers: Runs the gamut from "Dead Things" to "Selfless;"
also spoilers for "Fool for Love"
Summary: Buffy begins the task of putting Spike's pieces back together, and finds it's an altogether Sisyphean one.
Disclaimer: Spike, Buffy, Willow, Dawn, et. al are not mine. They belong to Joss Whedon and M.E.
Author's Note: Sorry it's taken so long to get the next chapter up -- computer
troubles, and all that jazz....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Buffy quietly closed the front door behind her, checking her watch and frowning. Three hours late -- she wondered what she was going to tell Dawn.
"Buffy? That you?" Dawn's voice called from the kitchen. Willow poked her head around the corner and smiled. "Yeah, it's her, Dawn." Willow stepped out to meet her and said in a low voice, "Did you do that -- that thing I talked to you about?"
Buffy nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. He's pretty cra--" She stopped, seeing Dawn step out, wearing oven mitts on her hands. "Uh, hey, Dawn. How's it going?"
Dawn put her hands on her hips and pretended to pout. "Buffyyyyy," she whined. She broke into a smile. "Hey. What's up? It's still daylight --" she gestured to the open front windows -- "can't have been doing much with the, you know, slayage."
"Oh! Um. I had to stay after, at the school," Buffy said, not meeting Dawn's eyes. Willow took that moment to quietly slip out of the room and head upstairs.
"Well, I hope they're paying you overtime," Dawn muttered. "I made some frozen pizza again, but I'm starting to get sick of it --"
Buffy took a deep breath. No more hiding things, she told herself firmly. "Wait. Dawn, I wasn't doing overtime. I was with Spike."
Dawn threw her oven-mittened hands into the air, a look of disgust crossing her face. "*What?* After what he did? Buffy, have you lost your mind?"
Buffy sighed. "No, I don't think I have. But Spike has, that's for damn sure."
"And you care . . . why?"
"Dawnie, listen to me. I'm going to spell this out in terms you can understand." Dawn rolled her eyes and pulled off her oven mitts, exasperated. "Spike got his soul back."
Dawn's jaw dropped. "He -- what?"
"He got it back and now he's kinda crazy and I'm trying to help him. Remember a few weeks ago when you went all -- poseable? Remember how weird he was? He wasn't joking around. He's seriously screwed up," Buffy explained.
Dawn scratched her head. "But how did he get it in the first place? And why's he all weird? I mean, not to say he wasn't weird before." She scowled.
"He won't tell me exactly how he got it, but I think he had to do some trials for it. He had burns . . . scars. I don't think it was pretty." Buffy shook her head. "He's crazy because he's guilty. You know, being a vamp for a century or so, you're bound to do some evil things. And he was pretty evil."
"Yeah he was. Is." Dawn ground her teeth, still scowling. "I can't believe you're helping him. After what he did, Buffy. Or did you forget?"
She was stung. She strode to her sister, clenched and unclenched her fists in anger. "I'll never forget. And that's exactly what I told him. Look, I don't have to tell you these things. I thought that's what you said, that I needed to tell people what was going on not when *I* felt like it, but when it needed to be done." She turned her head. "Anyway, he's worst with the crazy and all when he remembers . . . about me." She shrugged. "Make of it what you will, Dawn. But I'm helping him. Not *hooking up* with him, not . . . boinking . . . him -- but I'm helping him."
Dawn looked abashed. She stared at the ground for a few minutes as Buffy went into the kitchen and checked on the pizza in the oven. Sighing, she followed Buffy into the kitchen. Buffy looked mildly at her, wondering what was coming.
"I -- um, I'm sorry, Buffy. I still don't think helping him's a good idea --" Dawn looked up into Buffy's face, and smiled, tears in her eyes. "But I'm glad you told me."
"No more secrets," Buffy said, squeezing Dawn's shoulder. "I think we all had enough of that last year. Now, are you ready for some delicious frozen pizza?" Dawn managed a weak smile, and Buffy hollered in the direction of the stairs. "Willow, pizza's ready!" As Willow came down the stairs, Buffy took her sister's hand, then squeezed. Dawn squeezed back.
In a whisper, so Willow couldn't hear, Dawn said playfully, "So. Buffy Anne Summers: Therapist for the Theologically Insane. I like."
*****
It was looking like a good night for Spike. He sat at the kitchen table, animated, chatting with her lucidly as he nursed a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. His clothes -- black t-shirt, black jacket, black jeans -- were clean, and his eyes were clear. He hadn't once slipped into poetry or old memories, and was discussing calmly the latest demon to attack Sunnydale.
"So like I was saying, bloody thing's got to be hungry by now. Don't think it's eaten in centuries," he said, sipping his cocoa.
Buffy nodded, pleased at his progress. This was only his fourth night of coming over to the house before she went on patrol, and already he was starting to sound quite sane most of the time. Dawn was still uncomfortable with him coming, so Buffy had told her she could revoke his invitation every night after he left. That had cheered Dawn up slightly and now she walked through the kitchen during their meetings, a smug smile on her face. She was currently rummaging under the sink, looking for props for a Halloween costume.
"Buffy, do we have any weapons or anything? I mean, besides your cool slayer ones? I don't want to freak out the little neighborhood kids," Dawn said, closing the cupboard doors.
"Now, this party's going to be safe, is it?" Spike asked, turning around and fixing Dawn with a piercing stare. "No frat boys, no orgies. . . ." He waggled a finger at her.
Dawn laughed uneasily, looking to Buffy for help. She seemed to be saying, "I thought he was crazy?" She looked at Spike. "Uh, no, not that I know of." Spike nodded, seeming pleased with himself. Dawn quickly said, "Uh, I'll check upstairs -- maybe in the closet --" She turned and headed for the stairs.
Spike stared morosely into his cocoa. "Still doesn't trust me."
"No, not really," Buffy agreed cheerfully. "But she didn't threaten to set you on fire again, now did she?"
He perked up slightly. "No. That's something." He paused, looking thoughtful. "The voices are very quiet here. I feel like me again. Like they aren't in charge of me."
"That's good," she said encouragingly. "I told you that Hellmouth was screwing you up, but did you listen? Noooo."
He nodded, downed his hot chocolate. He held out his empty mug, a smile -- an easy, natural smile -- creasing his face. "Got any more?"
Buffy grinned. "Yeah. You know, Spike -- this is getting *easier.*" She took his mug and went to the cupboard, pulling out the cocoa mix.
"What is?" he asked curiously.
"Me. Talking to you. It's almost like -- old times, only, old times weren't really like this." She stopped, suddenly afraid she had said too much. "Um, how many scoops do you want?"
"As many as'll fit."
There was a sound of clattering footsteps coming down the stairs -- Dawn. Dawn peered into the kitchen, clutching something behind her back. "Um, Buffy?"
"What is it, Dawn?"
"I found this. Upstairs, in the closet." She stepped into the doorway and drew out her prize, holding it at arm's length in front of her and wrinkling her nose at the musty, crumpled object. "I figured you guys might want it."
It was Spike's duster.
Buffy stared at it. The last time he'd worn that duster he'd tried to -- She swallowed, closed her eyes for a minute. When she opened them she saw Spike was staring at the duster, a look of intense concentration upon his face.
"Spike?" Buffy asked carefully. "It's your duster. Do you want it?"
He looked down at the table, giving a little shiver. "'S not mine." He was grimacing.
Buffy sighed and reached out, took the duster in one hand. "Thanks, Dawn." Dawn looked at Spike's face, then quickly exited the room. Buffy sat down, holding the duster. "Spike, it *is* yours. Remember? You've been wearing it for the past twenty years, for God's sake."
But he was shaking his head, refusing to look at it. Buffy bit her lip, then laid it down absently on the table. A bit of a leather sleeve touched Spike's hand.
The effect was astonishing. He let out a howl and leapt to his feet, shoving himself away from the table and knocking over his chair. He backed into the counter behind him, his face twisting, his chest heaving. "Get it away!" he moaned.
Buffy was shocked. "What's wrong?"
He was trembling, trying to organize his thoughts. "It -- blood. Soaked in blood. Won't come out." He hid his face from her. "Take it away. I killed her. . . . Snapped her neck. Her eyes -- And she -- like you -- I killed her." He slid down to a sitting position on the linoleum. "I don't want it anymore. I don't want it. Take it away." He was petulant now, child-like, his eyes filling with tears. "I killed her."
"Buffy?" Willow's concerned voice asked. Buffy looked up to see Willow in the doorway, looking worried. "I heard a shout, and -- oh." She saw Spike cowering against the wall and looked at Buffy. "Bad night, huh?"
Buffy nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show. "It was going so well, too. He sounded like the old Spike again. I mean, not the evil 'I'm gonna kill you' Spike, but the not-so-evil 'I guess I'll help you out' Spike." Willow nodded supportively.
"Well, um, it's kinda getting late --"
"Yeah, I know. Slaying and all that jazz." She sighed, looking at Spike. He was now rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed, his mouth moving. "Look, I'll take him back to the -- the basement." She frowned. "Damn, we really need to find him a place to stay." She sighed. "Tell Dawn I'm out patrolling. And tell her she can do her thing, you know, with the invitation. It makes her feel better."
"Okay." Willow was watching Spike, seemingly fascinated with him.
"Willow? You gonna help me out, or you gonna stare at the crazy vampire all night long?"
"Oh! Yeah!" Willow, looking embarrassed, turned to leave. Before she did, she quickly said, "Buffy. . . . I'm proud of you. This -- helping him -- I think it's something Tara would have done." She smiled wistfully, then bowed her head and left.
Buffy blinked back tears. She wasn't sure if Willow knew that Tara was the only one she had really confided in about Spike. But as she went to Spike, helped him to his feet, and put her arm around him, she thought maybe Willow knew what she was talking about.
*****
The night air on his face was fresh, clean. It snapped him back to himself. He realized he was walking along the
sidewalk, a small, impossibly strong arm around his waist, keeping him moving. He blinked, saw Buffy's golden hair glinting at his side in the pale moonlight.
Disgust filled him. He'd done it again, showed his stupidity, his weakness. He managed a short, angry laugh, and Buffy looked up at him, startled. "Spike?"
"Bloody hell. S'pose I fell all to pieces again, didn't I." It wasn't a question.
She pulled a little closer to him, though he couldn't be sure if it was on purpose, or if because it was cold. It was uncharacteristically chilly, quite unlike the usual balmy nights they were used to. Without thinking he put his arm around her shoulders, drew her nearer to him. She flinched a little, but didn't pull away.
"Yeah, you kinda did." Her voice was soft. "You were doing really well, though. Lucid . . . like your old self . . . you were doing good."
He snorted. "Like my old self. Wish I knew what that was." He looked around, saw they were a few blocks away from the school. The houses on either side of them were dark; he supposed it must be late.
Buffy didn't say anything, and he didn't press her. The voices were beginning their old clamor again, and he concentrated on keeping them at bay. "Stay away," he muttered. "Don't want to listen to you now, had enough of your yammering for one night. Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up."
"Shh." She gently squeezed his side and he looked at her, surprised into silence. "You're stronger than they are."
"Oh. Right. Right; strong. Gonna make you shut up, I am. Now. Right now." He was walking more quickly, picking up the pace, gritting his teeth. Buffy was nearly trotting alongside him to keep up.
Buffy pulled back on his shirt, looking up at him with an annoyed expression. "Hey. Whoa, cowboy. If you haven't noticed, I have tiny little legs. Slow down."
He stopped, turned his head, looked at her. Her arm still encircled his waist; his was still around her shoulders. She was still shivering, looking pale and wan beneath the moonlight. He swallowed, concerned. "Are you cold?"
She shook her head, rolling her eyes a little. "No, Spike, I'm just shivering here for my own amusement. Yes, I'm cold. I didn't realize it was gonna be this chilly, that's all. I mean, this *is* California. . . ." She shivered again. "Cold front must've blown in or something."
Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face her. He raised his other arm, touched her shoulder. He smiled a little. "You can have my jacket if you like, pet."
She stared up at him; a hint of a smile played about her lips. The scent of her hair -- delicate, flowery -- wafted up to him. He breathed deeply of it -- and suddenly the most ferocious voice yet roared within his head.
He ripped his arms away from her and stumbled backwards, colliding with a street lamp and falling clumsily down. His head throbbed with pain and he cried out, shuddering with fear, squeezing his eyes closed.
Buffy ran to him, her eyes wide. "Spike! What is it --"
He flipped over onto his side, curling up. The creature in his mind snarled and spit, snapping its jaws. Its voice was harsh and cruel, and it filled him with terror. "God, get it out, get it out of my head!" he begged her, tears flooding his cheeks. He reached out in desperation, grabbed at her feet. "Make it stop -- please --"
The creature howled again, and he clapped his hands to the sides of his head, panting, quaking. He shook his head back and forth, frantically crying, "No, no, leave me alone, *no*!"
Her hands. She was touching him, trying to get him on his feet. "Spike, people are gonna hear --"
The beast was laughing. Its booming laugh was like hammers dancing in his head, smashing everything within to bits.
"Get it out!"
"C'mon --" She was tugging at him, trying to pry his hands from his ears.
"Can't move -- I can't -- don't you think I'm *trying* --"
"Spike, we're going whether you like it or not!" He was vaguely aware that she was hoisting him up, dragging him along. He clung to her, and wept, lost again.
*****
Buffy banged on the front door. "Dawn? Willow? Open up," she yelled. A light flickered on in one of the upstairs bedrooms and Buffy sighed, bracing the quiescent Spike against her. He had finally quieted a few blocks from the house, but he refused to stand alone -- she had tried letting go of him and he had tumbled to the ground. Now she looked at him, taking in the tousled hair, the half-closed eyes, the parted lips of the white face resting on her shoulder.
"Spike. Can you hear me?"
"Weak," he breathed. "Weak." His eyes fell shut and she groaned, kicking half-heartedly at the door as it swung open, revealing an annoyed-looking Dawn in pajamas.
"C'mon, Dawn, help me get him in. He's kinda -- out of it."
Dawn blanched. "Buffy, you've already had your little therapy session today. Can't he go sleep in his basement?" She rubbed her eyes.
"No. Come on, Spike, help me out here." She hauled him over the threshold and to the couch, where she pushed him onto it a little more harshly than she meant to. He lay there, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes.
"Buffy!" Dawn slammed the front door and turned around, her hair sticking out at odd angles. She looked pissed. "He's not *staying* here, is he?"
"Well, if you want to drag him back down to the Hellmouth, be my guest, Dawn," Buffy said sharply, leaving Spike's side and rummaging in the front closet for a jacket, still feeling chilled. She pulled out her leather jacket and shrugged into it, looking at Dawn. "But I have work to do, and I don't really want to carry him all the way down there. You can see he's --"
"Gone mad," Spike said helpfully. Sweat shone on his forehead. "They always t-told me I was foolish and they were r-right. My st-stuttering always -- Mother so disappointed, her b-boy so useless." Tears sparkled on his cheeks. "N-never a real m-m-man. I'm sorry," he whispered. "Don't be angry, please, I tried v-very hard." He let out a cry and hid his face in the blanket on the back of the couch.
Buffy looked at Dawn, who was standing at the end of the couch with wide eyes. "Can you imagine me trying to cart him back to that basement with him like *that*?"
"I -- wow, Buffy, you weren't kidding," Dawn said, sounding almost impressed.
Buffy rubbed her forehead. "Dawn, you are such a --" She refrained from finishing the sentence and instead yawned. "I haven't dusted anything tonight. I have to go back out, okay?"
"Where do we put him?" Dawn said, her awe wearing off. She now sounded sulky. "We're not just gonna leave him here with things -- open. He could just come up the stairs and --"
"Fine! We'll lock him in the basement, all right?" To herself she murmured, "No windows, he'll be fine." She looked up at Dawn and forced a smile to her face. "Well, open the door for me." As Dawn went to open the basement door Buffy reached down and again hefted Spike to his feet. He clutched at her, fear in his eyes.
"Don't let go," he whispered. "I'll be lost."
"We're going to take you downstairs, all right, Spike? You can get some sleep. You won't be lost." As she spoke she pulled him forward and he reluctantly followed her to where Dawn stood by the open basement door.
"Um, go on down, Spike," Dawn offered.
"Go on up to bed, Dawn. I'll take care of him," Buffy said wearily. Dawn slipped past her and Buffy began helping Spike down the steep steps. At last they reached the bottom and Buffy looked around, spotting a rickety cot in the corner. She helped him to it and laid him down.
"It's like a puzzle in my head," he said, his voice full of wonder as she picked up a blanket and spread it over him. "Little pieces -- jigsaw -- no sense." He tapped his forehead, winking at her and stretching his face into a grin. "No sense, luv. Just . . . little . . . pieces."
"Um, yeah, Spike." She stood over him, looking down at him. Her face was filled with pity. She reached out, as if to stroke his face, then jerked her hand back, suddenly afraid. He didn't notice; he had closed his eyes. She swallowed, confused by herself. She turned and jogged back up the stairs, shut off the light, and locked the door. She checked it three times before she was satisfied.
*****